Hunting in Hell by Maria Violante Page B
Authors: Maria Violante
thick line.
"Because, I'm hungry ." She delivered the reply with no lack of sarcasm, relishing the minor victory.
He opened his mouth, as if to protest. "What would you like to eat?"
It was her turn to pause. She tried to call an image of food to her mind, but the pictures were fuzzy, and she couldn't place any dish with a name. "Just make me something." She waved her hand, hoping he wouldn't notice the heat in her cheeks.
"As you wish." He snapped his fingers, and a bowl appeared in his hands, a steaming mess of smoky beans, with a thick crust of bread on the side. "I believe this is traditional for such an occasion."
Don't let your face reflect your surprise. She accepted the bowl with both hands and started to eat. Within a few bites, though, she set it aside and stared into her lap.
"Not to your liking? I can make you something else."
"My stomach feels so empty, but eating just made the pain worse. I feel like something is missing inside of me."
"You have not needed to eat, De la Roca, in at least three hundred years. Perhaps much longer than that, for I know not how long you were in Hell."
Hell? "I don't know what that's supposed to mean. I don't know how much of this to believe."
He replied quickly and easily, as if he had expected that reaction. "Ask me any questions you want. I will answer them if I can."
"Well, for starters, how do you know all of this?"
He smiled. "You told me all of it yourself."
The horse whinnied shrilly, and she glanced over at it before responding. Something was tickling in her mind, a tiny thought wrapped within others, like a series of nesting dolls. If only she could get them open—
"De la Roca, I am not your friend."
The frank admission surprised her and derailed her concentration. "Well then, what are you?"
"Your lover." Like lightening, he whipped toward her and pulled her close. Within seconds, his mouth was on hers, and she could smell the sickly-sweet scent of cloves and tobacco. She resisted, but a sudden heat raced through her body and squelched her protest. Seconds later, a small light flickered into her mind, the seed of a thought that had yet gone unrecognized.
When he let her go, she could feel her heart pumping. "I believe you. Now tell me the rest of it."
Fourteen
H er glare had been sudden and sharp, and Laufeyson wondered if he had offended her. It would have been better, to re-teach her slowly and let the effects of losing the lamprey's stone— not to mention the possible interaction of the stone from the Phoenix Well —wear off on its own accord, but they could not waste the time. If De la Roca failed in the next quest, she would have to be replaced.
He wasn't sure, of course, how to do that. Or if he even wanted to—or if it could be done.
Silently, he cursed the ones who had gone before him. A single mistake along the line could easily doom them all. Even so, the whole situation had been handled so haphazardly as to make the incompetence seem intentional. Not for the first time, he wondered if there was a traitor, before remembering that he was a traitor himself, no matter how right he thought his path.
De la Roca was valuable, her role integral—assuming she could succeed. And even if she couldn't, that was something he needed to know now.
In a way, perhaps this amnesia was a blessing in disguise. Without her memories, he was free to take shortcuts. With the Mademoiselle gone, he had time to shape her better to his needs.
And what does she want, I wonder? While he thought that he and the Mademoiselle were technically on the same side, there were things she did not know and would not understand, and he didn't have time for her meddling. Getting the mercenary alone had been hard enough, and the Mademoiselle would return soon.
He exhaled softly. She had fallen asleep by the fire, the horse standing over her
"Because, I'm hungry ." She delivered the reply with no lack of sarcasm, relishing the minor victory.
He opened his mouth, as if to protest. "What would you like to eat?"
It was her turn to pause. She tried to call an image of food to her mind, but the pictures were fuzzy, and she couldn't place any dish with a name. "Just make me something." She waved her hand, hoping he wouldn't notice the heat in her cheeks.
"As you wish." He snapped his fingers, and a bowl appeared in his hands, a steaming mess of smoky beans, with a thick crust of bread on the side. "I believe this is traditional for such an occasion."
Don't let your face reflect your surprise. She accepted the bowl with both hands and started to eat. Within a few bites, though, she set it aside and stared into her lap.
"Not to your liking? I can make you something else."
"My stomach feels so empty, but eating just made the pain worse. I feel like something is missing inside of me."
"You have not needed to eat, De la Roca, in at least three hundred years. Perhaps much longer than that, for I know not how long you were in Hell."
Hell? "I don't know what that's supposed to mean. I don't know how much of this to believe."
He replied quickly and easily, as if he had expected that reaction. "Ask me any questions you want. I will answer them if I can."
"Well, for starters, how do you know all of this?"
He smiled. "You told me all of it yourself."
The horse whinnied shrilly, and she glanced over at it before responding. Something was tickling in her mind, a tiny thought wrapped within others, like a series of nesting dolls. If only she could get them open—
"De la Roca, I am not your friend."
The frank admission surprised her and derailed her concentration. "Well then, what are you?"
"Your lover." Like lightening, he whipped toward her and pulled her close. Within seconds, his mouth was on hers, and she could smell the sickly-sweet scent of cloves and tobacco. She resisted, but a sudden heat raced through her body and squelched her protest. Seconds later, a small light flickered into her mind, the seed of a thought that had yet gone unrecognized.
When he let her go, she could feel her heart pumping. "I believe you. Now tell me the rest of it."
Fourteen
H er glare had been sudden and sharp, and Laufeyson wondered if he had offended her. It would have been better, to re-teach her slowly and let the effects of losing the lamprey's stone— not to mention the possible interaction of the stone from the Phoenix Well —wear off on its own accord, but they could not waste the time. If De la Roca failed in the next quest, she would have to be replaced.
He wasn't sure, of course, how to do that. Or if he even wanted to—or if it could be done.
Silently, he cursed the ones who had gone before him. A single mistake along the line could easily doom them all. Even so, the whole situation had been handled so haphazardly as to make the incompetence seem intentional. Not for the first time, he wondered if there was a traitor, before remembering that he was a traitor himself, no matter how right he thought his path.
De la Roca was valuable, her role integral—assuming she could succeed. And even if she couldn't, that was something he needed to know now.
In a way, perhaps this amnesia was a blessing in disguise. Without her memories, he was free to take shortcuts. With the Mademoiselle gone, he had time to shape her better to his needs.
And what does she want, I wonder? While he thought that he and the Mademoiselle were technically on the same side, there were things she did not know and would not understand, and he didn't have time for her meddling. Getting the mercenary alone had been hard enough, and the Mademoiselle would return soon.
He exhaled softly. She had fallen asleep by the fire, the horse standing over her